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Updated: May 5, 2025
She looked at me like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by telling her of the death of Lampron's mother. Her only answer was an attentive nod. She guessed something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak. I went on and told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way to her.
But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the ordinary kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he ran a serious risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter Lampron's card in an envelope to the Comtesse Dannegianti. From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any impression, nor even whether he had understood.
"It's at Lampron's house, in his mother's room, where Monsieur Charnot can go and see it if he likes." "My father does not know of its existence," she said, with a glance at the slumbering man of learning. "Has he not seen it?" "No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron has kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago."
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